Masters challenge, p.22
Master's Challenge,
p.22
“Is there some reason for this celebration I should know about?” he asked suspiciously.
Before he answered, Chiun stepped over to his sleeping mat, which had been set in the middle of the floor, and settled onto it like a leaf falling from an autumn tree.
“Yes, my son,” Chiun said, his long fingernails tapping together happily. “Come, sit at my feet. We must talk. This is a happy day.”
“Why?” asked Remo, even as he sat on the floor.
“Because, my son, you have come far in Sinanju. Because you are about to take a major step forward in Sinanju, and I am pleased with you.”
Remo thought a moment. “I thought I’d taken a major step about a year ago. Remember? The Dream of Death? You told me then I’d be in this phase for a long time.”
“This is true, Remo,” Chiun said, his voice solemn. “You are still young in the eyes of Sinanju and must walk the traditional path. But today you showed me that you are ready to move forward along that path more swiftly. To run ahead, but without straying from that path. Your work with the fire walking told me this.”
“It is a good technique,” Remo said. He was debating whether or not to add “taught by an excellent teacher” when Chiun said, “Yes, a good technique, and taught by an excellent teacher. But you know this. What you do not know, for I have not told you, is that fire walking is not usually taught to one as young as you. But in ten years you have absorbed better than any Korean what I have taught you of Sinanju. This gives me hope that certain other lessons can be taught ahead of their proper time. This is important, Remo, because the more you know, the safer is your life and mine, and it is upon our safety and skills that my poor village depends. You are their future, after me. And one day you will be the Master of Sinanju instead of me. Thus, you are ready for a new technique.”
Remo had listened many times to the story of the poor village of Sinanju on the West Korean Bay, which lent out its best men as hired assassins to the great thrones of history so that starvation would not force the village to “send its babies home to the sea” because there was not food for them. The House of Sinanju developed the assassin’s art of Sinanju—which was the source of all lesser martial arts—into a tradition that Remo and Chiun currently carried on in service to CURE. Remo just nodded and asked flatly, “Which technique, Little Father?”
Instead of answering, Chiun made as if to stand up and, legs poised under his kimono, sent his stiffened index finger flashing out and snipped off a lock of Remo’s dark hair before Remo could react.
Before the lock fell to Remo’s thigh, Chiun had seated himself again, arms folded.
Remo, his reflexes blindingly fast for a human being, caught himself in mid–strike. He had been too slow blocking Chiun’s thrust, and the tips of his manicured fingers froze a centimeter in front of Chiun’s parchment countenance.
“I am still reigning Master,” said Chiun, amused that Remo’s counterthrust had been initiated before Remo became conscious of the need to defend or strike. It was only Remo’s brain catching up with his reflexes that stopped the death blow.
The lock of hair fell to Remo’s crossed thigh as he dropped his arm.
“You know the art of the Killing Nail,” said Chiun.
“Yeah. It’s not restricted to Sinanju. Others have used it, too.”
“And animals,” added Chiun. “The fingernail is a natural tool. Before the club, there was the nail. But Sinanju, realizing the power of the nail properly used, cultivated the growing of the nail to a certain length, learned how to harden it through diet and exercise, and used the nail as it was meant to be used. To perform our art.”
While he spoke, Chiun separated his hands and displayed them, palms inward, so that Remo could see the long, slightly curving knives that grew from Chiun’s fingers and that Remo knew could open a man’s jugular. Remo knew this because he had seen Chiun do that.
“Older Masters have traditionally taken to the use of the Killing Nail. It is the symbol of the ultimate assassin, the man whose weapons grow from his body and, if broken, will grow back. The Knives of Eternity, they are called.”
“Little Father…” Remo began.
Chiun raised one delicate nail for silence. “Although you are young and a white, Remo, you are ready to take up the weapons of the eldest Masters. You are ready to let your nails grow. It is a happy day.”
“Little Father, I cannot,” Remo said quietly.
“Cannot? Cannot?” Chiun squeaked questioningly. “Do not be fearful of this honor, Remo. You need only trust me. I will guide you through the most difficult stages.”
“Little Father, I am not ready for this.”
“But you are ready, Remo. I know this,” Chiun said firmly.
When Remo just sat there uncomfortably, Chiun was puzzled. “What troubles you, my son?”
“It is not my way to wear my fingernails long,” Remo said quietly.
“Way?” snapped Chiun. “Way? Sinanju is your way. You are a Master of Sinanju. And the Killing Nail is the way of Sinanju. I do not understand you.”
“In America,” Remo explained, knowing that Chiun would not understand American customs, or else would dismiss them as unimportant if he did, “men clip their nails short. They do not wear their nails long. Only women do. It is considered unmanly to have long fingernails.”
“I know this. Have I not lived in your uncivilized country since before our first meeting?”
“Then you understand what I am trying to tell you, Little Father,” Remo said hopefully.
“No. I understand only that I am talking to an idiot. Remo, I am offering you something no one of Sinanju has ever been offered so young. Something no white could ever comprehend, and what obviously no white will ever appreciate. Especially you, who could not even stop a fat white fire–insect from destroying an important and beautiful building.” At that point, Chiun lapsed into abusive Korean in which the phrase “pale piece of pig’s ear” was the least offensive remark made.
Remo knew there would be no talking to Chiun now, and there wasn’t.
“I apologize, Little Father. Perhaps when I am older. Perhaps if we survive and that day comes when I take over as reigning Master—maybe then I will be able to do this thing.”
“Why not now?” Chiun demanded in English.
“Because the work that I do for Smith calls for secrecy. That is why I am dead.”
“You are dead because you are the dead night tiger,” Chiun snapped back, forgetting that by acknowledging Remo as the dead night tiger of Sinanju—the white man legend had foretold would be trained as the greatest Master of them all and the avatar of Shiva, the Destroyer—Chiun was acknowledging Remo’s worthiness in the eyes of his ancestors.
“Maybe. But I was made to appear dead because I have been given the sword of my country to carry into battle, and it is a sword that must be carried in secret.”
“A paper sword,” Chiun scoffed.
“The Constitution, yes. My job is to operate outside the Constitution so that it will survive and my country will not fall.”
“And so you dishonor your sword each time you wield it.” Chiun spat on the floor. “How white. How American.”
“Nevertheless, it is my sword. And if the hand that carries that sword becomes conspicuous, then the man will become known and his sword will be taken from him, along with his life. Where will that leave America? Or Sinanju?”
“I would train another. One with fingernails.”
“But you have trained me. And you have made a contract with America so that I can carry out America’s work—in secret.”
“Do not remind me of my shame. Do not remind me that I have been forced to train a white meat–eater in the greatest of all professions, that of assassin, and that the greatest house of assassins has been reduced to this. I have trained you, Remo, because that is my obligation, because you learned well—up to a point—and because I had mistakenly thought you possessed the soul of a Korean. But I now know this is untrue. The Korean soul is hard like bamboo, and the fingernail grows from that hard soul. You obviously have a white soul, soft and like mist. When you die, your body will decay, and the wind will dissipate your pale, wispy soul, as happens to all whites when they die. But Korean souls are hardy. They live on. Yours will not.”
“Bulldooky,” said Remo, who wasn’t sure how much of this to believe, nor how much of it Chiun himself believed.
About the Authors
WARREN MURPHY was born in Jersey City, where he worked in journalism and politics until launching the Destroyer series with Richard Sapir in 1971. A screenwriter (Lethal Weapon II, The Eiger Sanction) as well as a novelist, Murphy’s work has won a dozen national awards, including multiple Edgars and Shamuses. He has lectured at many colleges and universities, and is currently offering writing lessons at his website, warrenmurphy.com. A Korean War veteran, some of Murphy’s hobbies include golf, mathematics, opera, and investing. He has served on the board of the Mystery Writers of America, and has been a member of the Screenwriters Guild, the Private Eye Writers of America, the International Association of Crime Writers, and the American Crime Writers League. He has five children: Deirdre, Megan, Brian, Ardath, and Devin.
RICHARD BEN SAPIR was a New York native who worked as an editor and in public relations before creating the Destroyer series with Warren Murphy. Before his untimely death in 1987, Sapir had also penned a number of thriller and historical mainstream novels, best known of which were The Far Arena, Quest and The Body, the last of which was made into a film. The book review section of the New York Times called him “a brilliant professional.”
Also by Warren Murphy
The Day Remo Died (a prequel)
The Destroyer Series (#1-25)
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Mafia Fix
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Summit Chase
Murder Shield
Terror Squad
Kill or Cure
Slave Safari
Acid Rock
Judgment Day
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Assassin’s Playoff
Deadly Seeds
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King’s Curse
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The Final Death
Mugger Blood
The Head Men
Killer Chromosomes
Voodoo Die
Chained Reaction
Last Call
Power Play
Bottom Line
Bay City Blast
Missing Link
Dangerous Games
Firing Line
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Balance of Power
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Profit Motive
Skin Deep
Killing Time
The Destroyer Series (#51-75)
Shock Value
Fool’s Gold
Time Trial
Voodoo Die
Master’s Challenge
Encounter Group
Date With Death
Total Recall
The Arms of Kali
The End of the Game
Lords of the Earth
The Seventh Stone
The Sky is Falling
The Last Alchemist
Sue Me
Look Into My Eyes
Old Fashioned War
Blood Ties
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Walking Wounded
Rain of Terror
The Trace Series
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And 47 Miles of Rope
When Elephants Forget
Pigs Get Fat
Once a Mutt
Too Old a Cat
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Copyright
This digital edition was published in 2023 by Head of Zeus, Ltd.
If you downloaded this book from a filesharing network, either individually or as part of a larger torrent, the author has received no compensation. Please consider purchasing a legitimate copy—they are reasonably priced, and available from all major outlets. And if you enjoy it, leave a positive review. Your author thanks you.
Copyright © 2023 by Warren Murphy
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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Warren Murphy, Master's Challenge
